The kettle whistles softly on the hob while Helen sifts through a row of tea bagschamomile, peppermint, EarlGrey with bergamot. The selection arrives from Poppys last business trip to London. Helen smiles, remembering the day five years ago when her daughter ceremoniously handed her the flat.
Now, Mum, this will be your own home, Poppy says, extending the set of keys. No more rented rooms.
The old kitchen has long been Helens favourite spot. Everything here breathes coziness: a worn lace doily on the table, geranium pots on the windowsill, even the cracked tile next to the cooker feels familiar. Helen is about to pour herself a cup when the doorbell rings.
Standing on the threshold is Poppy, dressed in a sharp business suit, hair impeccably styled, face as cold as ice.
Mum, we need to talk, she says.
Helen steps aside, letting her daughter in. Something in Poppys voice tightens Helens chest.
Come in, love. Ive just brewed your favourite tea, the one you brought back, Helen replies.
No, thanks, Poppy remains in the middle of the kitchen. Im only staying briefly. Mum, you have to vacate the flat. By tomorrow.
Helen freezes, kettle still in her hand. She thinks she heard wrong.
What did you say?
The flat has to be cleared. Tomorrow. I cant keep dragging this out.
Hot tea splashes onto her hand, but Helen feels no pain.
Poppy, I dont understand This is my home. You yourself
Its just a flat, Mum, Poppy says, pulling out her phone and scrolling quickly. Youve lived here, but I cant keep supporting you any longer.
Support? I pay the bills, I clean
Mum, lets skip that. The decisions final. Leave the keys on the table.
She turns to leave, but Helen grabs her wrist.
Wait! At least explainwhy? What happened?
Nothing, just business, Mum. The flat could fetch a higher rent.
The door shuts, and Helen is left alone, the ringing in her ears. She slides down onto a stool, eyeing the puddle of spilled tea. The surface reflects the evening sun in flickering shards.
In a dreamlike haze she rises and walks into a room where photos line the wall: Poppy in a white dress at her graduation, the two of them on a seaside holidayPoppy building a sandcastle while Helen laughs, trying to shield it from the waves. She had just sold the country cottage to fund Poppys tuition. Was that a sacrifice? No, simply love.
Darling, Helen whispers, tracing a finger over the picture. How did it come to this?
Evening turns slowly into night. Helen mechanically packs a battered suitcase, pausing now and then to stare at familiar details of the flat: peeling paint in a corner she always meant to touch up, the warm glow of her favourite desk lamp, the geranium shadow on the wall. Every tiny thing suddenly feels priceless.
Deep down a hope flickers that Poppy will call in the morning, say it was a mistake, a cruel joke, anything. The phone remains silent while the clocks hands mercilessly count down the final hours in the place she has called home.
The first night feels oppressive. Helen sits on a park bench, clutching the worn suitcase, gazing at the stars. Somewhere, in cosy flats, people are sleeping in their beds, while she wonders, Lord, how did it come to this?
She left the keys on the kitchen table, polishing them with a napkin until they shineperhaps Poppy will notice the care, remembering how her mother always tended to the little things.
A roughvoiced man sits opposite her on the bench, his beard tucked into a threadbare coat.
Good evening, he says, his voice rasping. Dont be alarmed, Im just taking a seat. Staying out tonight?
Helen pulls the suitcase tighter.
No, Im just taking a walk, she answers.
He chuckles. At three in the morning? With a suitcase?
Yes, imagine that, Helen forces a smile, her lips trembling. I enjoy night walks.
Right, he says, pulling an apple from his pocket and offering it. Want one? Fresh, just washed in the fountain.
Helen shakes her head, but her stomach growls. She hasnt eaten since yesterday morning.
By the way, Im Sam, the man says, taking a bite. Been on the streets three months now. My wife drove me out. And you?
Daughter, Helen replies softly, surprised by her own bluntness.
Hmm, Sam shakes his head. Kids are… different now. I have a son in America, waiting for his first call for two years.
Morning brings a chill. Helen dozes off against the back of the bench. Sam has long gone, leaving another apple and the address of a shelter. Its warm there, he had said, and they sometimes feed you.
When daylight breaks, she rises, rubbing sore feet. Where to go? A shelter feels too sudden. Perhaps Gwen, the neighbour who always offers tea, could help.
She hesitates at the front door of the flat on the fifth floor, hand hovering before she finally knocks.
Lena? Gwen appears, wrapped in a colourful housecoat. Good heavens, whats happened? You look halfgone!
Gwen Helens voice trembles. Could I stay with you for a few days?
Gwens kitchen smells of powdered sugar; fresh scones sit cooling on a tray.
Of course, Gwen says, listening to Helens fragmented tale. I always said you were spoilt. Remember how you whined on your birthday? And you kept calling me darling, darling
Dont, Gwen
Dont be shy, Lena! Gwen thumps her cup on the table. How long can you keep pretending? Youve always been like that. Remember when you gave all your savings for the wedding? She never even thanked you!
Helen watches the city awaken outside the window. Somewhere, people rush to work, homes, families, confidence in tomorrow.
Youll get up again, Lena, Gwen places a hand on her shoulder. You always manage.
Three days pass unnoticed. Helen helps around Gwens flatcooking, cleaning, even fixing a broken tap. Yet each day the weight of her situation feels sharper.
Victor! she suddenly recalls, flipping through an old address book. Victor, a longtime family friend who once worked with her husband, had offered help years ago.
Dialling his number feels frightening. What if he forgets? Or worse, remembers and refuses?
Hello, Victor? Its Lena Lena Peterson
An hour later she sits in his modest office, a room cluttered with paperwork in a municipal shelter where Victor is the manager.
So the daughter kicked you out? he taps a pencil on the desk. Well weve just had a chef leave the canteen. Its temporary, but can you cook?
Ive spent my whole life cooking, Helen stammers. But where would I live?
Youd live here, Victor smiles. A small staff room, but its yours. Youre stronger than you think, Lena. Youll manage.
That evening she steps over the shelters threshold not as a resident but as an employee. The scent of borscht mixes with chlorine. Voices fill the dining hallan articulate old man in a frayed cardigan tells a story to a young mother with a child. Sam, the man she met, helps set the tables.
Olivia Peterson! calls a middleaged woman. Im Tamara, Ill show you the ropes. Dont worry, weve all been through something.
The little staff room feels surprisingly tidy and cosy. Helen sits on the bunk, pulls out her phone, her finger hovering over Poppys number No. Not now.
Alright, she tells her reflection in the window, life goes on.
Three months fly by like a single day. Helen quickly gets the hang of the kitchencatering for a large company turns out more fun than cooking for two. Constant work leaves little room for dark thoughts.
Olivia Peterson, Tamara says, peeking into the kitchen, a new girl arrived, just a teenager. Could you make her a cup of tea?
Just a moment, Helen wipes her hands and retrieves a hidden packet of biscuits from the top shelf.
A slender twentyyearold sits at a table, nervously tugging at the sleeve of her oversized sweater.
Tea? Olivia offers, placing a cup in front of her. Bergamot, from London.
The girls eyes well up.
Thank you. Are you have you been here long?
Three months, Olivia replies, sitting beside her. I thought this was the end of the world, but it turned out to be the start of something new.
In the evenings she writes. At first she jots thoughts in an old notebook, then poems emergeawkward, naive, yet sincere. Tamara, when she shows them, is moved to tears.
Write, Olivia, she says. Your soul sings.
One night Olivia pulls a fresh sheet of paper and writes, Hello, Poppy. The letter stretches long. She tells her daughter everything: the night in the park, the apple from the homeless man, the fear and loneliness, and how she learned to live again.
Youll always be my daughter, she writes, but I will no longer live only for you. Ive started writing poems again. Remember how I read my early attempts to you as a child? You laughed and said I was like Shakespeare. Now I write for myself. I hope youll understand someday that this is right.
She never sends the letter, but the act lightens her heart, as if shes finally letting go of what has held her for so long.
A shout comes from the kitchen. Olivia Peterson! Tamara bursts in, waving a flyer. Remember Mary Stevenson, who comes to our literary evenings? She has a room to let, cheap. She says youre a good cook and a poet
A week later Olivia moves her few belongings into a bright room on the second floor of the old building. Mary Stevenson, a slender woman with sharp eyes, helps her hang curtains.
You know, Mary says, handing over a nail, Ive been through something similar. My husband left after thirty years. I thought Id never survive. Then I started painting. Can you imagine?
That night Olivia stands by the window, watching the first snow drift down. Fluffy flakes swirl under the streetlights, blanketing the city in white. Somewhere else, perhaps in a flat across town, Poppy watches the same scene.
On the table lies an open notebook. I hold no grudges, Olivia writes, and for the first time in a long while its a pure truth. Life indeed goes onand now she knows she will live for herself, not for anyone else.
